


Laid Bare

by biggrstaffbunch



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:19:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggrstaffbunch/pseuds/biggrstaffbunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam isn't sure what Louis and Zayn are playing at, but. He's pretty sure he really, really likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laid Bare

**Author's Note:**

> This is the 202967th fic but surely not the last to be inspired by this: http://wearecities.tumblr.com/post/55036280729/zayn-and-louis-stalking-their-prey
> 
> Thank you to Any and Liri for their encouragement and threats of bodily harm. Dedicated to Caitlin and Hannah for stanning Zilo with me from the START.

|

One day, lying on the floor of a stupidly expensive chartered boat off the coast of Florida, Louis tilts his head close and whispers to Liam:

“You know the only way to fight back when your life’s an open book, Liam?”

The burn of weed still flares white-hot and heady in Liam’s chest, and he closes his eyes, lets his head knock against Louis’. “Yeah?” Liam asks, breathing in the salt and brine of the water rocking in gentle waves around them, catching, too, the scent of sun-warmed skin and hotel shampoo.

There is the shape of a smile against Liam’s ear, breath hot on Liam’s neck. Two fingers tweak his nipple, a punctuation mark for a sentence not yet uttered.

“Live your secrets,” Louis says, triumph like a copper wire threaded through his voice, bright and sharp.

Liam furrows his brow, because Louis likes metaphors when he’s high but Liam’s always been the textbook example of _literal._ Zayn rescues them then, sprawled nearby and listening. Always listening.

“He means,” Zayn says, after rolling over and draping himself over Liam’s shoulder, voice low and another hot breath on the other side of Liam’s neck, “People only see you when you’re trying to hide, yeah? So stop. Don’t hide.” He laughs, languid and rough. “Do what you want, and _fuck_ everyone who watches.”

Louis leers, eyes a little bloodshot and heavy, but blue like the ocean, like ice. “If only,” he sighs, and Zayn sighs too, exaggerated and interrupted by a smile he can’t seem to hide, one that spreads across Louis’ face as well. They peek at each other over the slow rise and fall of Liam’s chest, and there’s something dizzy in the way they communicate with arched brows and licked lips.

Afterward, Liam thinks that he probably should’ve seen it coming.

 

|

 

Louis and Zayn are cats, is the thing. Sleek, beautiful creatures. Mysterious, a bit. Discerning. Deliberate. They don’t come when you call, cats. They make people work for their affection, their regard. It’s because they’re contrary by nature, probably. 

If they want something, if they covet it truly, they won’t take the most direct path towards attaining it, either. Dogs will bark till they get their way, big pleading eyes, obvious and silly demands to be noticed. Cats, though. Cats will slink and saunter and poke and prod. Cats will have fun with the chase. Cats will _play._

And when they pounce, their prey never sees it coming.

So, yeah. Louis and Zayn are cats.

Which makes Liam... the mouse.

 

|

 

They’re on stage, and the lights are blinding and the crowd is screaming and Niall’s got the mic. It’s a blur of color and a rising wall of sound, but everything, _everything_ has narrowed down to a single square of space on their makeshift flying stage.

Louis is staring. 

"He looks a little spooked, Zee," Louis says sotto voice, eyes fastened on Liam's bemused expression. He circles around Liam, looking over his shoulder, stepping into his space, only making room for Zayn. 

Who smirks, and follows. 

“Don’t worry, bro,” Zayn reassures, soothing tone at odds with the rapt, almost predatory look on his face. “You’re safe with us.” 

Louis grins at Zayn, a flash of white teeth. The two of them catch on a glance, lock onto one another, then in tandem, break off and let their gazes drop from Liam’s head to his feet, a languorous slide that feels more like a caress than it should. A blush bottoms out the floor of Liam’s belly, pricks his skin, makes him feel hot all over. 

“ _Absolutely_ you’re safe with us,” Louis says, all sincerity. 

They’re still circling, though. Liam wonders if Louis and Zayn were the type of children to play with their food. 

Zayn laughs like he knows what Liam is thinking. Grabs Liam’s wrist and nips at the tender skin there gently. Distantly, Liam can hear the roars from the crowd grow. 

“Remember, Batman,” Louis whispers, suddenly behind Liam, on tiptoes to speak into the fine hairs at Liam’s nape, fingers biting into the curve of his bicep, “It’s only a secret if you’re afraid to get caught.”

Trapped between Louis at his back and Zayn at his front, Liam knocks a trembling hand over his snapback. 

Pretends not to see the look of victory shared over his shoulder.

 

|

 

It escalates, as these things often do. 

Liam thinks it’s like scenting first blood. There’s a boredom that sets into their live shows after doing it the first twenty times, and now that Louis and Zayn have latched onto a potentially hilarious new pastime besides sitting sidestage and whispering the whole show (Liam’s not envious it’s just not _professional_ okay?) there’s no letting it go. 

It starts during I Would. Louis and Zayn are singing their call and response, all “would he please you,” and “I would,” and Liam is being a twat, knocking their mic stands to the floor just because there’s an itch under his collar whenever he hears the pure dip and slide of Louis’ voice in tandem with the trill of Zayn’s. Like a kid pulling someone’s braid, really. Usually Louis gives a dirty look, or wrestles Liam to the floor in retaliation. Sometimes Zayn smiles indulgently before squeezing Liam in the side and rubbing the bruise better later. 

Only this time, as soon as Liam walks over to where Louis and Zayn are singing to each other, something different happens. He knocks over their mic stands and then-- 

They both fall to their knees. 

There’s something viscerally and visually arresting about the sight of Louis and Zayn on the ground. Maybe it’s the contrast: Louis’s sun-lightened brown hair and Zayn’s dark quiff, Louis’ eyes bright like chipped glass and Zayn’s eyes mellow like good whiskey, Louis’ barrel chest and rounded arms and Zayn’s lean strength, long torso. They’re beautiful, a study of opposites that still seem to _fit_ so seamlessly together. 

Or maybe it’s the fact that Liam’s never, not once, seen either of them bare their throat quite like this for anyone else. 

They sing like that, at Liam’s feet, looking up at him from under their lashes. 

And even though it’s mean to seem like supplication, there’s a tilt to their chins that make it look like a goddamn _dare._

 

|

 

Honestly?

Liam imagines taking the dare. Stepping forward, curling one hand around the nape of Zayn’s neck, running the other through Louis’ fringe. Standing there while their heads bow towards him. 

In his mind’s eye he can see it, a crowded stage and dark arena, the spotlight bleaching out the space behind them, bringing into sharp relief the image of Louis’ tousled hair, the wide line of Zayn’s shoulders, the pale expanse of both their necks. 

There’s a hunger that Liam’s never been able to name, one he sees mirrored sometimes in the mischevious, restless abandon of Deadly Day, in echoes of reckless laughter as Paul chases Zayn down a corridor, in the exhilaration of opening a car window to give a pap the finger. 

It’s the urge to spin out of control just to test the net there to catch you. 

Yeah, so. Liam. Liam thinks about it. Lets his fists clench. Lets himself look.

Keeps singing, and tries not to notice how Zayn and Louis look _back_.

 

|

 

If it were about the fans, Liam thinks they probably could’ve stopped somewhere around the time Zayn sang “there’s a pile of my clothes at the end of your bed” basically into Liam’s mouth, hand wrapped around Liam’s mic, the sound almost drowned out by the screams of approximately 15000 girls in the throes of disbelief. 

But it’s not about the fans. It’s about seeing how much is too much, and pushing it just a little bit more. 

It’s about hiding in plain sight, shouting confessions at the top of lungs because if they’re gonna be heard anyway, they might as well be on someone’s own terms. 

Liam wonders what Louis’ saying when he grabs Liam’s micstand during Rock Me, gyrating with just a little too much consideration to be entirely a joke. 

Or what Zayn’s trying to admit as he hooks his chin against Liam’s shoulder, swaying behind him during One Thing, humming into Liam’s neck as the crowd sings “get out get out get outta my head--” 

And how, when it’s a bit like drowning to just take a breath, Liam’s supposed to draw enough air to even beginto answer them.

 

|

 

It’s not like Liam’s a passive observer in his own life, or anything. 

Except for the fact that he sort of is, these days. 

It’s just _difficult_ , alright, when Louis and Zayn are constantly building then breaking these little spells around Liam, private moments unfolding in the open, promises lurking in every crooked grin and tipped head. 

How’s Liam supposed to act, what’s he supposed to _do_ when Louis’ dancing around him, fleeting touches and snatches of laughter, quicksilver in mood, impossible to pin down? What words could he possibly say, what force could he possibly _exert_ when Zayn’s moving in counterpoint, throwing Liam’s orbit in reverse, turning his head with long looks and purposeful smiles? 

When there are two blokes, best mates, determined to make his life a spectacle, then what else can Liam do but sit back and watch the show?

 

|

 

“I think Louis and Zayn are plotting something,” Liam confides to Harry, sitting in the bus lounge, looking with unseeing eyes at the movie currently playing on the widescreen telly. 

Harry makes a noncommittal noise from where he’s currently lying across Liam’s lap, staring up at his mobile as he texts. Liam scowls and hopes for an unkind moment that the phone falls on Harry’s dumb face. This is a _crisis._  

He says as much, and Harry snorts. “Louis and Zayn are always plotting something,” Harry says, unalarmed. “It’s like, all they do together. That and scroll through twitter to make fun of people.” 

Liam feels defensive for a moment. “Well, Max deserved it,” he says. 

Harry lowers the mobile and arches his eyebrow as eloquently as possible. Liam reddens. 

“Nothing they’re thinking of can be worse than anything they’ve done yet, Liam.” Harry says this with all the certainty of a man who once had I M A NUMBER 1 WANKA!!! shaved into his leg hair while he slept. 

There’s a rumble as Louis runs down the bus corridor, skidding to a stop and slamming into the wall before rebounding to peek his head around into the lounge. 

“Hey lads,” he says, as if being invoked by the mere allusion to The World’s Greatest Prank. 

Zayn pops out from behind Louis. “Hey Liam,” he says, not even bothering to pretend with Harry. Harry, who looks at Zayn and Louis, then looks up at Liam, then looks at his mobile, and rolls his eyes. 

“Trust me, Li.” Harry shakes his head and gets up, falling to the ground in a tangle of messy limbs. “Whatever they’re planning for _you_ is gonna be loads more enjoyable than what they’ve planned in the _past_.” 

He shoots a dark look at Louis and Zayn, then scrambles to his feet and ducks past them both. 

Liam shivers as twin grins unfurl across their faces, guileless but guarded somehow all at the same time. 

There’s a hesitance in Louis’ tilted head and Zayn’s casually crossed ankles. A challenge, almost. The doorway is blocked by Zayn’s wide shoulders and Louis’ folded arms, an implicit taunt interlacing their gentle permission of Liam to ignore the tension and go crashing through them, all of this-- _atmosphere_ \--to be forgotten. 

Only, Liam’s never been one to turn down a challenge. And maybe he’s only just starting to understand the answer to the question Louis and Zayn have been asking all along. 

They stay there for a suspended moment, at an impasse. Somewhere in the bus, Niall cackles as a chord goes horribly wrong. 

Liam grins, lets his muscles unfreeze and expand, smiles his own smile with crinkly eyes and his whole heart beaming out from between his teeth. 

And when he shoulders slowly past his friends, for the first time in awhile, he’s walking with purpose. This time, it’s Louis and Zayn who’re left staring after _him._  

Maybe he’s not a mouse after all.

 

|

 

“Can ya kiss your favorite member of the band?” 

Niall reads the twitter question with a healthy dose of incredulity. Sometimes, the strangest shit makes its way through the filters of their handlers, even as well-constructed as they are. Liam reckons someone from tour management thought it’d be a laugh.

(Or else no one has learned yet that One Direction will only back down when it comes to carrots, Larry Stylinson, and thinking up better stories than the girl in a bin.) 

The incredulity has gone from Niall’s voice by the time he is turning to the boys, gleeful in that very slightly mad way that he’s perfected. 

“Well! Louis, c’mere big boy!” Niall’s got his lips puckered comically, and Louis gives a graceful bow before sweeping Niall into his arms, bending him almost backwards over his arm as he gives Niall a huge, wet kiss on the forehead. 

The crowd screams, and then it’s Harry’s turn. He seems to entertain the idea of kissing Louis too, albeit briefly, but Louis’ eyes are screaming _please don’t!!!!_ in that coldly distant way of his. Liam understands; however much he and the rest of the boys know that Louis and Harry’s friendship is just that--bone deep to be sure, but platonic to the root--the internet doesn’t. Or, if it does, refuses to acknowledge it. Much better to play it safe.

Well, safe to a point.

Because Zayn solves the problem by stepping forward, and Harry does a neat about-face, turning instead to him, and then Zayn’s fingers are clutching at Harry’s hem and he’s got him nose-to-nose and for a minute it almost looks like-- 

But no. A light peck at the corner of Harry’s generous mouth, a signature smoldering look, and then Zayn steps away, looking very self-satisfied. 

Liam feels a bit light-headed. 

It gets even worse when it’s Louis’ turn and he makes a show of thinking hard, gaze skirting Liam’s. “Well, I _ought_ to pick poor Liam here, oughtn’t I?” Louis asks the crowd, and receives a scream of approval. “He’s the only one not to get a little pash.” 

Louis grins, that special shit-eating grin, and blows a kiss Liam’s way, fluttering his eyelashes. The stubble lining his cheeks brings the round ‘O’ of his mouth into stark relief, lips almost red, obscene. 

When Niall asks, “What about you, mate?” with an arm slung around Liam’s neck, skin cool and sweaty against Liam’s own, the answer seems obvious. 

“I’ve got two favorites though,” Liam answers, easy as anything. He steps into Zayn’s space first, crowds close, and relishes at the way there’s no give, no backing away, no surrender or submissiveness in Zayn’s stance. Instead, Zayn meets Liam head-on, steady, eyes dark and intent. 

Liam skims his knuckles down the knife’s-edge of Zayn’s cheek, then ducks in, kisses Zayn on the mouth with a quick but firm press of the lips. It sends a lightning bolt cracking down Liam’s spine, singing through his limbs, sparking at his fingertips. 

He backs away on a gulp of air, feeling as gobsmacked as Zayn looks, but just for an instant. Then Zayn’s expression morphs, turns easy and sly. His eyes dart to Louis, who’s watching them with--jealousy? pride? possessiveness?--burning in his gaze. 

As if pushed by Zayn’s hands, though nothing more than a subtle force is exerted, Liam turns and faces Louis. Harry and Niall are arguing now about rules and technicalities, and there seems to be a constellation of camera flashes going off every millisecond, but Liam concentrates on the steadying heat of Zayn’s fingers on the small of his back, and the singular, magnetic hold of Louis’ eyes. 

“They’re partners in crime,” Liam says into the mic, voice low. “But I’m the superhero. It doesn’t work if one of us is missing.” 

This admission, this insight, it’s a secret, Liam thinks. Something that’s meant for just the three of them. So naturally he’s saying it to 30,000 adoring fans. 

Louis’ face is soft now, though. Open. Like this is what he’s been waiting for. Zayn’s fingers press harder for a moment, slip around to Liam’s waist. Then Liam is stumbling forward, leaning in, and Louis is catching Liam at the waist too, hands over Zayn’s, all three of them connected. 

It seems natural to let himself take time, to nose at Louis’ jaw, a nuzzle to make the crowd laugh, then to let his mouth graze over Louis’, a shock of sensation that simmers rather than sinks fully into their skin, ignites their nerves. Liam feels rather than hears the hitch in Zayn’s breathing, knows he’s laughing at the way Liam is teasing, knows that the quiet groan of frustration that slips from Louis’ throat is for the three of them and them alone. 

Liam laughs, too. Feels warm because this is another strand of the triangular thread that’s weaving between them--something more than the physicality of their bond. It’s playing FIFA at 3 in the morning when none of them can sleep, or scribbling lyrics on food wrappers that they slip into each other’s pockets as they travel between shows, or knowing exactly where they go when one of them gets lost in their own heads. 

There’s another shared breath, a huff from Louis and a small noise of contentment from Zayn, and then Liam backs away, lets the noise and rush of the crowd swallow their pocket of silence up. 

Niall is crowing: “And there ya go, Hannah in row 4, seat 3, section 113. The answer t’ your question! Liam’s kissed two people, and he’s a dirty cheater!” 

Laughing, Zayn pokes Niall in the nipples, then the belly. “Aw, Liam’s just got a lot of love to give, Nialler,” he says. 

“Yeah, leave Liam alone, just ‘cause we’re his favorites--” Louis musses Niall’s hair, tackling him into a headlock. 

Liam watches, and smiles, and carries on the rest of the concert feeling the remnants of those kisses the way a jet plane leaves a vapor trail in its wake. Visible, but transient, a mark of something that rips through the sky and rearranges the clouds, makes everything new. 

When he sings, he sings to Louis and Zayn.

 

|

 

There is, it turns out, one thing the boys won’t do in front of crowds. 

Well, they probably would, actually. 

And doesn’t _that_ thought make everything brighten and flare and narrow for Liam, as he throws his head back, gulps heavy lungfuls of air, wrists pinned to the wall behind him and thighs littered with bruises. 

“Lock the door,” he commands, voice broken, every nerve lit and fused. 

“Already have,” Louis responds, looking up from where he’s kneeling between Liam’s legs, his own voice is broken, raspy, show-worn and edged with a roughness that’s almost sweet. 

“You played a long game, mate,” Zayn mutters, tense all the way through, looming over Louis with his palms splayed on the wall at either side of Liam’s head. He noses against the straining tendon at Liam’s neck. “Now we’ve won, yeah? And it’s to the _victors_ that go the spoils.” He licks at the hollow below Liam’s jaw, swirling his tongue then sucking an aching bruise into the soft skin there. 

“ _Only_ the victors,” he adds, like he needs Liam to be sure, and there’s something so fucking--just, _hot--_ about how he’s not asking, how he’s telling, how he’s so _sure_ that Liam is on the same wavelength, riding down the same road at a breakneck, fool-hardy pace. 

“Okay,” Liam says, because what else is there to say? What else is there he even _wants_ , especially right now, with his dick in the warm, wet suction of Louis’ mouth, and Zayn’s lips slanting over Liam’s, till all he can taste and smell is smoke and cologne and salt and slick heat.

Trousers and pants still around his ankles, shirt rucked up around his chest, Liam feels wide open and sensitive, every touch like a brand. Zayn’s palm moves down to press at the jump of muscle in Liam’s stomach, other hand maneuvering Liam so the angle of their kiss deepens. Every breath is swallowed by Zayn, every gasp or muttered curse or plea. They kiss, and there’s the burn of stubble, the swollen press of lips, the long stroke of his tongue. 

And it’s all in counterpoint to Louis, Louis who’s licking Liam’s cock in firm strokes, slick hand moving where his mouth isn’t, swirling at the head, lapping under the tip where it’s sensitive in a way that draws a shuddering moan from Liam, bolts of sensation arcing through his gut. 

“Christ,” Liam gasps, and now his wrists are free, so he tugs at Louis’ hair, the strands soft and sweaty. Grabs at the buckle of Zayn’s trousers, then slips a hand down to cup at the thick line of his cock straining through. 

The sound of a zipper breaking the quiet, and then Zayn’s dick is in Liam’s hand, hard and smooth and hot and _fuck._

Zayn agrees. Curses, a sharp little cry, then: 

“Fuck, _Lou_ ,” and maybe it’s that, maybe it’s that Zayn says _Louis’_ name like he wants Louis to feel this too, that pushes Liam even closer to the edge. 

There’s friction and heat and spiralling tension coming from the base of his spine and the pool of his belly and when Liam looks down, Louis’ got himself in his hand, fist moving slow. Zayn pats at Louis’ head and without even missing a beat, Louis lets go, reaches up his hand so Zayn can lick his palm, clean lines up and down and then over each finger, and okay, _okay_ Liam can’t stand this-- 

Louis drops his hand back to his dick, little tremors rocking each breath he gulps down between sucking Liam’s cock, mouth pink and shiny, blue eyes drowsy. He’s jacking himself off even faster now, an urgency in every twist of his hand, mimicked in the easy motion of his grip around Liam’s own dick, and something drives Liam to let his hips tip forward, to mutter encouragement to Louis. 

Zayn leans in, rocks his hips against Liam’s hand, whispers to Liam: “Pretty mouth, innit? Good mouth, taking you down. Swallowing you. Com’n, Li. Put your back into it. Louis can take it.” He breaks over his next words. “C-can’t you, sweetheart?” he asks, and Louis just groans in answer, the hum vibrating around Liam’s cock. 

His mouth _does_ look good, and Liam lets his hips snap forward, breathing heavy, groaning Louis’ name, then Zayn’s. Zayn’s mouth looks pretty too, actually. Red, red lips and blinding white teeth, that fucking _tongue_ \-- 

Without thinking, Liam is taking his hand from Zayn’s cock and pressing his thumb against Zayn’s lips, parting them. Zayn opens his mouth, licks at Liam’s fingers, laving around the pads where Liam knows he will taste his own self, and there’s no words for how filthy his smile is when he sucks a mark into the meaty flesh of Liam’s palm. 

Liam whines, a fist inside his chest squeezing tighter, breath coming shorter and hips snapping faster. 

“Good, Li, yes,” Zayn encourages, and it’s like they’re onstage again, all subterfuge and honesty at the same time.

And then Liam’s clenching a hand in Louis’ hair, swiping a thumb over the head of Zayn’s cock, and coming with a low, low groan.

Below him, Louis groans, too, and Liam almost wants to laugh, because there’s a stripe of come on his collarbone right over the It Is What It Is Tattoo. But then he doesn’t laugh, because he can see where Louis has swallowed, a bit of come still on his lips, and then Louis is standing up on shaky feet, leaning in to pull Zayn close and kiss him. 

Zayn, who is breathing sharply through his nose. Zayn, who groans and works himself through his orgasm, milking his cock in long, steady pulls. Zayn, against whom Louis comes next, riding his stupidly skinny thigh, gripping the small of his back and jerking in small, unsteady thrusts.

Zayn, who is even now tasting Liam on Louis’ mouth.

And it’s like that, in the dark cavern of Liam’s hotel room, Liam in Louis’ mouth and now on Zayn’s, that they all finish.

 

|

 

Well. It _could_ be a finish. Maybe.

Or a beginning. You’ll never know. 

Which was sort of the point all along, isn’t it?

 

|

 

(...though you can probably guess.)

  
  



End file.
